Fireworks
by SomewhereApart
Summary: After an ill-timed migraine keeps Regina from celebrating Independence Day with her family, she and Robin make a little fireworks show of their own.


If ever there was a worse day for a skull-splitting migraine, Regina cannot imagine it.

And yet, here she is, in the middle of the afternoon on July 4th, with lights popping in her vision, her stomach oily and threatening to revolt at any moment, and pain like an ice-pick in her skull.

She breathes shakily, in, out, in, out, as she lies in her bed – their bed, now, hers and Robin's – and waits for the man who'd stolen her heart (and now regularly steals her covers) to bring her a handful of Excedrin and some room temperature tap water.

"Here you are, my love," he whispers, the bed dipping slightly as he sits beside her. Regina cracks her eyes open in the dim room (she'd drawn the shades tight, blocked out as much light as she could, and he hadn't turned any on, bless him), and half-sits, her stomach revolting at the pain even that much movement sends throbbing in her skull. She swallows heavily, mouth full of spit, and takes the pills blindly, gulping them down with the cup he eases into her fingers.

She lowers herself gingerly to the pillows, eyes glued shut again, and exhales slowly. God, she feels like hell.

Robin's lips brush her forehead, his beard tickling, and then he's breathing, "Get some rest," and the bed shifts again as he rises.

Not likely with this level of pain, she thinks, but she lies there in the dark, very still, and focuses on breathing.

The house has never been this quiet, she thinks. It's a holiday, and they'd had plans – everyone was supposed to come over for a cook-out. Robin was going to show off his skills on the grill, and he and David were still lobbying to set off what they had insisted were very tame fireworks, completely safe for a residential area. (Fat chance.) And now she's ruined all that, had made a cake iced in white with strawberries and blueberries artfully arranged in the shape of an American flag for nothing. Or at least, nothing for her – they could still take the cake to the park (where they're headed shortly, now that Regina's body has forced a venue change). She hopes they take the cake to the park…

Doesn't hope it enough to bother moving in order to let Robin know he ought to bring it with, but hopes all the same…

Something falls downstairs, a clatter from the kitchen that she can hear all the way in the bedroom, and she winces, but it melts into a little smile. Life with children, especially children raised in the forest, is never quiet. She's surprised they managed as long as they had.

Still, the noise reverberates in her skull, has her dreading the eventual popping of fireworks from the beach. She'll hear them from here, even if they aren't deafening, and if she does manage to get some sleep the last thing she wants is to wake up in the middle of it.

She should fix that.

It'll hurt like hell, but in the long run…

Regina breathes in, deeply, and out, deeply, then cracks her eyes open and raises hands that tremble slightly. The burst of magic it takes to create a barrier around the room has her stomach pitching again, a burst of nausea carried along by the ring of pain that ignites in her head, but then it's over and there's silence. Perfect silence. No birds outside, no feet on the stairs, not an errant shout from one of their sons to the other. Nothing.

A sealed, dark, quiet room.

It takes some time, a few more perilous swells of nausea and a lot of careful breathing, but eventually Regina succumbs to the sweet relief of sleep.

When she wakes again, it's to the soft popping feeling of her magic being interrupted. The bedroom is dark, so dark she can barely see, but she hears the shuffle of Robin's soft footfalls near the door, and then the near-silent click of the latch. She hears an owl hoot outside, but it doesn't hurt. Her headache is gone, just the gnawing feeling of a migraine hangover left in its wake. A sort of cottony, detached sensation, and a bone-deep tiredness.

"You're back," she rasps into the dark, and Robin lets out a breath.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispers, and she can hear fabric rustling, the metallic clink of a belt buckle, and then the shift of the bed as he takes his place beside her.

Regina rolls until she can press against his side, his arm lifting to make space for her. His chest is bare against her cheek and he smells like woodsmoke and vaguely of beer.

"It's alright," she tells him. "I can fall back asleep. How was your first Independence Day?"

He grunts softly, pressing a kiss into her hair, and telling her, "Good. Loud. The kids had a grand old time; Roland is fairly covered in mosquito bites, though."

"Did you forget the bug spray?" she asks, her words slow, eyes closed in the dark, mind already beginning to drift.

"I did," he confesses, and then his hand is trailing patterns on her back, and oh, she won't last long now. "And the sunscreen, but thankfully it was late enough in the day not to worry about that."

She hums softly in response, her limbs feeling heavy, boneless. She sleeps better when he's here, falls quickly under his soothing touch, and it seems tonight is no exception, even with hours of sleep already under her belt.

"Would have been better with you there," he whispers, breathing her in. The last thing she remembers before she's out like a light again is him saying something about how it's a shame she missed the fireworks show.

When she wakes again, it's early. Very early. There's light, but only just barely. The sort of pre-dawn glow that creeps around the curtains and gives everything a certain amount of form and shape but no definition.

Her body has sated itself, healed and recovered, and she finds herself alert and rested.

And with an intense need to urinate.

Regina eases from the bed as stealthily as she can, trying not to wake the man sleeping beside her, one arm slung onto the pillow above his head. She wishes there was more light so she could see him better, and then gravity hits her and all she wishes for is a bathroom slightly closer than the hallway.

She thinks about staying up, maybe doing some reading, balancing her checkbook, but her feet carry her back to the bedroom. Back to Robin. It hasn't always been easy, these past few months, but there have been plenty of times she's wanted to pinch herself to assure her that it was real. That she's not going to wake to find him gone, still and always, off in New York with the real Marian while her mind conjures absolute madness in an attempt to bring him home.

But no, he's really here. With her. The events of this spring really did happen, and they really have managed to recover and find some sort of equilibrium even in the face of them. So she'll go back to bed with him, just because she can. She'll lie awake a while and watch him sleep, just because she can. She'll tuck herself under the covers, warm with the heat of his body, and be grateful for every breath she watches lift his chest and let it fall again.

Or she would, if he was asleep.

But as she slips back beneath the covers, he rolls, eyes still shut but hands moving with intent to pull her against him. She smiles and shifts to her side, wriggles until they're spooned together, then sighs contentedly. This works, too.

"Mrnng," he slurs, and she grins. Someone's still sleepy (most of him anyway – certain parts are wide awake, stiff against her rear).

"Good morning," she says quietly, her voice breaking a bit in the middle, scratchy from hours of sleep.

"Hw's r'head?"

"Better," she whispers, running her fingertips along the bare skin of his arm. He grunts, and then his hand is sliding to her breast, giving it a sleepy, clumsy grope, kneading it through the thin fabric of her shirt. "What are you up to?" she asks teasingly, smirking at his attempts at seduction. His only answer is to slide his hand down to her belly and press his erection more firmly into her ass. Well, then. So much for that smooth-talking man she'd fallen for.

"Was jus' th'nking…" he begins, his words starting to separate a bit more, his voice beginning to clear. "It's early… Kids r'sleep…"

"Are _you_ asleep?" she teases, with a little laugh, and it gets her tugged onto her back, Robin levering up onto his elbow beside her.

"No, milady," he tells her, and now he finally sounds awake. "I'm most definitely not."

His fingers find her skin again, her belly half-bare from the twisting of her t-shirt as they'd shifted.

"Prove it," she urges, and oh, how he does.

He starts with kisses – well, no, he starts by pushing her shirt up into her armpits, baring her breasts to the soft light of the room, and _then_ he kisses her. Lips and throat and collar, making his way down to her breasts, and then he teases her. Makes the most of this extra morning they've carved out for themselves and swirls his tongue over her breasts, avoiding her nipples until she's squirming, breathing his name in admonishment or encouragement, she's not sure.

When he finally sucks a nipple between his lips, she lets out a groan much more worthy of attention a bit further down, but it's been several solid minutes of his tongue just-next-to-but-not-quite where she needs it and the payoff of waiting had been incredibly satisfying. Robin's urgency hasn't increased any with the move to more stimulating contact; he still lingers, still takes his time, sucking at her nipple, drawing back until it pops from his lips, then taking it in again, letting his tongue flick against it in a way that has her huffing out a breath. When his thumb begins to rub back and forth across the other nipple, her toes curl in the sheet.

"Robin," she sighs, "Don't tease…"

He nips her hard enough to make her jerk in surprise, then lifts his head and asks, "Why ever not, my love?" The hand at her breast grasps and tugs, twists gently. Regina arches, her lashes fluttering. "You do enjoy it."

"I'd enjoy it more if you– oh!" He's ducked his head back down, sucked her in and given her a little rolling tug at the same time and it has her breath stuttering. "Did that!"

His chuckle vibrates pleasantly against her skin, and he keeps up what he's doing, teasing her with lips and tongue and fingers, both nipples at once, until she's writhing, panting, slick and ready for him although she knows he's going to be a miserable bastard and take his sweet damn time working his way south. When he switches, mouth on her other breast now, hand on the one slick with spit, she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip to stifle herself, a habit she probably doesn't need to indulge this early in the morning, but she'd hate to traumatize the boys.

When she's squirming and raking her nails across his skull, gripping at his hair with one hand, the sheets with her other, pressing her thighs together for some kind of – any kind of – friction, he lifts his head, scoots up to kiss her mouth, and she swears if he starts this all over again, she'll kill him. Actually kill him. In the meantime, she's going to slide her tongue against his, pour all her pent up arousal into their heated kisses, but if he starts to tease again, all bets are off.

But he doesn't. No, he does something worse, pulling out of their kiss and murmuring against her lips, "Do you think I could make you come like that? Just your breasts?" Oh God, no, he cannot get ideas like that, they'll only result in torture for her. Torture she'd surely enjoy, torture that will probably blow her mind, but torture all the same.

"Robin," she groans, finding his hand with hers and urging it down, tucking it between her thighs, beneath her panties, and guiding his fingers so he can feel how wet she is. It works; he groans, too, sits long enough to yank her underwear down and off, shimmying out of his own while he's at it (she takes the moment apart to tug her shirt up and drop it next to the bed, and then they're both naked as jaybirds). He stretches out alongside her again, then brings his fingers down and sinks two of them into her and oh, thank God…

"You are so beautiful," he breathes, fingers beginning to thrust lazily, and it's not enough, but it's something at least, it takes the edge off, so that when he kisses his way down to her breasts again, she's no longer thinking of murder.

He keeps sucking at her nipples, one first and then the other, lingering and then switching, again, again, while all the while he has two fingers knuckle-deep in her, pressing and sliding and making her part her thighs wider, rock into his touch. She's starting to sweat, starting to twitch, she could maybe even come from this, it could maybe be enough, but she wants _more_ , always wants more. She wants _him_ , wants him inside her, maybe wants his tongue flicking against her clit that way that makes her tremble…

So she reaches for him, worms her hand between his body and her own until she can wrap her fingers around his erection and give it a lazy stroke. His breath whooshes out against her, puckers her nipple even tighter as it hits her damp skin. For a moment, he stops what he's doing, presses his brow to her breast and enjoys the feel of her hand, her grip snug, her rhythm easy. And then he scoots down, down, until he slips from her grasp, and Regina bites back a smug smile.

He has plans for her yet, and if she keeps that up, she'll derail them, so down he goes, right where she wants him, just to keep himself out of her reach. Just like she knew he would. Not all selfish manipulations are malicious.

No, some are just selfish, some just have the love of your life slipping his fingers out of you so he can situate himself between your thighs more comfortably, and then oh, that son of a bitch. Instead of easing his fingers back inside her, he licks at her, grasps at her thighs as he fucks her with his tongue, her clit still woefully unattended, and Regina whimpers before she can stop herself.

"I hate you," she huffs, and he _laughs_ at her, face still buried in her sex, his fingers beginning to massage and squeeze the tense muscles of her thighs while he riles her up even further without relief. Her breath comes heavily, her teeth digging into her lip until it's sore, and she _aches_ for him, switches tactic to a breathless, "Robin, I need you," in the hope that maybe he'll take mercy on her.

He doesn't.

For a second, she thinks he's going to – his tongue slips out of her, laves a line straight up and coasts over her clit, and she jerks and cries out softly in relief. But then he's right back to where he was, his tongue inside of her, and she groans, genuinely irritated by his dawdling now.

So she takes matters into her own hands, brings her fingers down to rub at her clit herself, and she has never seen him stop going down on her so fast. He lifts his head, scowling at her, and Regina lifts her brows, widens her eyes. A look that clearly says _Well, what did you expect?_

"You are impatient," he chides, drawing her hand away and replacing it with his mouth, giving her a light little lap as she retorts that he's a sadist. He grunts, annoyed (and good, now he knows how she felt), but he stays where he is, pets her clit with slow strokes of his tongue, and it's not just what she needs, but it's close enough.

He licks her again, again, again, and Regina moans softly and threads her fingers in his hair, but it doesn't escape her notice that he's not quite his usual level of enthused. Oh, it'll get the job done, but she rather likes when he's about to devour her, and she's gone and ruined his fun, it seems.

So she rocks up against him, and moans a little louder, whispers to him, "I love when you do this… Love – oh, Robin… oh, God… your tongue feels––so good… Don't stop..." Her voice rises in pitch as her pleasure edges up in intensity and the flattery works, he's hungrier now, starts to suck at her, and she presses her lips tightly shut but doesn't choke back her moan of appreciation. "Can you… _mmm_ … do the thing I like?"

He gives her a slow suck, then eases off, asking, "What thing, my love?" even though he knows perfectly well what thing. Regina frowns at him, and he smirks. Bastard. "This?" He sucks at her again, slowly but over and over, her jaw dropping open at the delicious pressure, hips rising toward him. But she shakes her head, that's not what she wants; she wants his tongue flicking against her, quick and hard. "Maybe this?" He flattens his tongue, moves it side to side over her clit, soft wet friction that has her sighing.

"I'm so close," she breathes, because she is, she's close, close enough that if he would just stick to one thing she'd probably be able to reach her peak. But he's changing it up again, sliding two fingers back into her and seeking out her g-spot, and when he finds it, she stiffens and moans loud enough that she prays their kids are still asleep. She gropes for his pillow, mashing it against her face as he starts to give her firm, deep raps with his fingers, and then his mouth is on her again, and _oh God yes!_ , his tongue is flicking against her clit, _that_ is the thing she likes, the thing she wants, and her thighs are quaking, her hips trembling, and then she's shouting into imitation down as she bucks against him, pleasure rocking her from top to toe, her belly clenching.

He doesn't stop this time, isn't teasing anymore, drapes an arm over her hips to keep her in place and keeps pumping his fingers into her, keeps tapping his tongue against her, until she's jerking with every point of contact, her fingers white-knuckled in the sheets, his name a whimper on her lips. And then he switches to those slow sucks, never ceases his fingers, and she slides somehow from oversensitive to just sensitive enough, rides the cusp of orgasm until he manages to push her into another one, this one quieter but no less intense. She sees stars, her own little fireworks show behind her eyelids and bites at the pillowcase as she groans deeply.

When he stops this time, she goes boneless against the sheet with a moan of satisfaction and relief, residual trembles still chasing through her thighs every now and then as he kisses his way back up her body.

There's more light in the room now, the sun is up, and that means Roland will be up soon. Henry will sleep half the morning away if she lets him, he's getting to that age, but Robin's boy is used to rising with birdsong and early breakfast.

And Robin is still hard against her thigh, his mouth covering hers, his beard damp against her chin.

She's still catching her breath, so their kisses are broken, staccato things, and she gasps into the air between them, "That was…"

"Worth the wait?" he finishes for her, and she nods, pushing at his shoulders, urging him to his back. "And you doubted me."

"Never," she smirks, straddling him with legs still a little unsteady, and reaching for his cock, sinking down onto it without preamble and reveling in his little hiss, in the feel of him inside her. "I just wanted you to pick up the pace a little, that's all."

"Impatient," he repeats breathlessly, and she gives him a look, starts to rise up, sink down, up, down, setting a rhythm that will finish him off quickly, and her, too, if she's lucky (but she's just had two intense orgasms, she'll still be perfectly satisfied if she doesn't come with him inside her).

"Patience isn't always a virtue," she gasps, shifting her weight to brace against the headboard, rocking her hips back and forth with every up and down, her clit grinding against him and sending little shocks of pleasure through her that border on _too much_.

"I think it's–" he swallows heavily, "served us rather we-ell," he manages, his voice tightening with pleasure, his hands grasping at her hips, moving her faster, and she'd say something to that, to whatever he'd said, but this new rhythm is shorting out her brain, pulling her jaw down, making her forget everything but his grip angling her just so. Her eyes squeeze shut at the feel of him, just right inside her, again and again and again, and thank God for his hands because her thighs are shaking again, her fingers curling against the headboard, oh God, she's going to come again.

He moans something that sounds like _Stunning_ , but it breaks in the middle and he's fucking up into her harder as she's driving back against him, and this time when she drops her fingers between her thighs he doesn't protest. She's not sure who comes first, him or her, but when her held breath finally explodes out and she's braced on weak arms atop him, he's panting and satisfied beneath her as well.

The first words out of his mouth are, "I love you," and Regina smiles, and bends down to kiss him, murmuring that she loves him too, before she climbs off him and flops rather gracelessly to the mattress. Robin rolls, slides a hand over her belly, and just smiles at her.

And smiles at her.

Smiles at her long enough that she furrows her brow and asks him, "What?"

"Just you," he tells her, and then there's a tiny knock at the door, and the squeak of the knob turning and Regina says a silent thank-you to whatever being had bestowed magic upon her as she uses a wave of her hand to poof them back into pajamas in the time it takes for Roland to come stumbling into the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and saying that he's hungry.

Robin snickers, smirking impishly at her before rolling off the bed and scooping his son up over his shoulder, fingers digging into the boy's side until he's shrieking at the tickles as they stroll out of the bedroom in search of breakfast.

Regina watches them go, these two new men in her life, and thinks how lucky she is. How grateful. How desperately she hopes there's nothing waiting around the corner to take them away from her again.

She rises to follow them a few minutes later, when her knees don't feel quite so much like jello, and as she takes the stairs down to the main level and hears them laughing in the kitchen, she thinks maybe they should have a do-over. Invite everyone over this afternoon, fire up the grill.

And yes, maybe, just maybe, set off a whole mess of illegal fireworks in the backyard.


End file.
